


What sets them apart

by borealowl



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, POV Alternating, Prequel of a Sort, it's always fluff, it's fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 17:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borealowl/pseuds/borealowl
Summary: There's a snake in the Garden of Eden, but for some reason the guardian angel won't smite him.Alternately: there's a very lonely angel, and for some reason a demon is being kind to him.Friendship and love start with taking an interest in one another.(Ch 1 is set in the Garden, Ch 2 just after. Ch 3 is a brief, fluffy, and entirely self-indulgent epilogue set post-canon.)





	1. Chapter 1

Hell is operating exactly as it should be: everything is going wrong, everyone is screaming, everywhere is on fire. Dark ominous figures slouch through the smoke, and where they go, the cries of the damned arise from the omnipresent cacophony.

On the edge of the terrible chaos, by a lake of boiling sulfur, there lies a large black serpent, coiled around a rock. Around him, his fellow demons are delighting in torturing each other. It would be better if they had other beings to torture, but angels are too holy—and too smart—to drop in, and there isn’t anyone else. Yet.

But our serpent isn’t tearing arms off, or rearranging vital organs, or quietly whispering “this is why no one will ever love you” into another’s ear. He’s just resting, staring moodily into the lake, letting out the occasional sigh. He’s bored, and he hates it here, and there’s nowhere else to go. Glumly, the snake dips the tip of his tail into the sulfur, and regrets.

Heaven is far away, as far as it is possible to be, and since divine beings are involved, that means infinitely far. Everything is clean and bright, cool and weightless. Is it a bit sterile? Perhaps. But everyone is calm and pure and holy.

There’s not much to do here. The important angels are off in the void, creating stars and building the next stage of the Divine Plan. None of them knows the whole of the Divine Plan, of course; it’s ineffable. Each angel on the job is given a blueprint, and if none of the blueprints seems to match or fit together in any way, who’s going to question it? They’ve learned that it’s best not to ask questions.

Other (lesser) angels must find other ways to fill their time, like singing praises to the divine glory. One might think that this would grow old after a while, that perhaps a break for a glass of water would be nice, but for one angel, this is perfect. It’s a simple task: sing praise and glorification. He knows he’s doing it right, because no one has stopped singing to glare at him. He’s full of light and love and the comforting knowledge that he is doing a perfectly adequate job. Surrounded by celestial harmony, Aziraphale beams, and sings, and rejoices.

“Hey, Crawly” The voice and its owner ooze towards the serpent. The mass of writhing maggots hands out a file folder. “Gotta job for you, ya mopey bastard.”

Crawly sighs. Infernal torments were never really his thing. “What am I doing now?”

“You know how they’re all building something big and new up there?”

“Mm, yesss.” He wonders how his nebula is doing. It had turned out quite nicely, if he did say so himself. (He was not going to say so himself, not anywhere within earshot of his fellow demons.)

“They just finished the centerpiece. An entire world with specially created beings.”

“And?”

The writhing pile throws it’s…hands? up in exasperation. Maggots go flying off in all directions.

“So go up there and make some trouble!”

The snake looks around. _It can’t be worse than here_ , he thinks. He’s right.

A terrifying mass of eyes and wings and fire approaches the Ninth Choir, causing a ripple of surprise through their perfect harmonies. It’s impossible for them to be discordant, but they are capable of sounding confused. What is the Archangel Gabriel doing here? Doesn’t he have better things to do?

A wing beckons, and one angel feels himself summoned out of the choir. “ **Rejoice, Aziraphale!** ” he booms. “ **You have been chosen for a mission of great importance!** ”

Aziraphale looks confused. “Are you sure you have the right angel?”

 **“Your name is Aziraphale, is it not?** ”

“Well, yes, but—“

“ **Then rejoice. The Lord of the Universe has declared that you are to become the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.** ”

“Sent…down? To the earth? Away from here?”

“ **Yes. Are you not honored?** ”

Aziraphale does not appear to be listening. “Was it my singing? Was I too sharp on the last note? My performance review said I met expectations, did I miss something?”

Countless glowing eyes roll upward in exasperation.

“ **Aziraphale, are you listening?** ”

“Yes, of course, I’m just trying to understand. Is there an appeal process?”

Gabriel’s flaming wings fold in upon themselves and unfold to reveal a simpler form like Aziraphale’s own, albeit a taller one with purple eyes. (Show-off.)

“Aziraphale,” he says in a voice that doesn’t shake the heavens. “It’s a promotion. A reward for all your invaluable service, whatever it is.”

“But why me?” wails Aziraphale.

“To be honest, I have no idea. But you can’t question ineffability!”

“No,” agrees Aziraphale sadly, remembering the war. “You can’t.”

“Cheer up!” Gabriel slaps him on the back. “It’s a great assignment! You get your own flaming sword!”

Crawly spends the next few weeks being utterly delighted. He loves the touch and smell of all the green things—plants, they’re called—and would happily spend all day coiled around the bigger ones. The animals are chaotic and noisy, but without any of the malice or glee of his infernal brethren. And the two humans, well. They’re a bit dim, not much better than the animals, but he can see a spark of intelligence there that’s _very_ promising. He especially likes the younger one—it seems more curious about its surroundings. But both of them, like the plants and the animals, seem fundamentally harmless. No, if he’s going to cause trouble it will have to be with the angel up there on the walls.

Aziraphale spends the next few weeks being absolutely miserable. Instead of being surrounded by the holy presence, he’s surrounded by green and insects and strange smells. Perfect harmony has been replaced by an earthly racket. And he’s _lonely_. He thinks sadly back to his last sight of his Choir. They were radiant with compassion and benevolence when he bid them farewell, but when he turned back for one last look, they had returned to their singing, Aziraphale already forgotten.

He is distracted from his self-pity by a sudden shadow rising along the ground—inside the wall! A huge black snake climbs to the top of the wall. It’s obviously an infernal creature--the dangerous beasts are being held in reserve, and the cunning intelligence in the serpent’s eyes speaks of demonic powers. Anyway, it positively reeks of sulfur.

“Hello,” it says pleasantly. “Nicsse Ssssword.”

Crawly doesn’t really want a fight, but he’s expecting one. Perhaps that’s his mission: pick a fight with the other side, lay waste to the Garden in the battle, let the angel take the fall (as it were.) He has no sympathy for the divine being—stuffy self-righteous bastards, the lot of them—and whatever they do to punish the angel Upstairs won’t be anything like what his own side will do if he doesn’t cause enough trouble.

But the angel surprises him. Instead of attacking, he holds the sword up.

“This? Thank you, but it doesn’t really feel like mine. It belongs to the job, you know.”

Crawly can’t blink, but he’s definitely taken aback. “Ssstill, impressssive flames it’s got.”

The angel sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

There’s a long awkward pause. This is not going the way Crawly expected.

“Um, you do realissssse I’m a demon, yesss?”

“Oh,” says the angel. “Yes, I rather thought you might be.”

“Aren’t you going to ssssmite me?”

The angel frowns. He’s not terrible, or awe-inspiring, or even stern. He mostly looks anxious and slightly disappointed. It’s almost…cute.

“Wouldn’t that be rude?” He shakes his head sadly. “No, no, you’re right, I should.” He brandishes the flaming sword, and for a moment, Crawly can see something terrifying underneath the angel’s good nature, something pure and righteous and unbending. He feels a shiver of dread. Or maybe anticipation.

Then the angel speaks:

“Shoo!”

Crawly has seen angels screaming with righteousness, and those weeping with terrible fury, and and even some who had been genuinely heartbroken to fight against their brethren. He has felt the endless wrenching pain of having his holiness ripped away, and the further torment of seeing his fellow angels turning their faces away from. Right after Falling, he tried to slither back to heaven to apologize, just once, still not convinced that his Creator could truly repudiate him so thoroughly just for a few bad decisions. He has been cast back into Hell, banished by divine invocations that burned worse than hellfire ever could.

He has never been told to “shoo.”

He shoos.

Gabriel comes by to check up on him.

“How’s the Garden? The humans?”

“Both fine,” Aziraphale replies.

“I heard there was a demon sneaking around here, but I don’t see any signs of battle.”

“Well, um.” He hesitates. “There wasn’t much need to fight, I simply asked him to leave and he did.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t fight him?”

Aziraphale starts to worry again. “Was I supposed to? The mission brief just said ‘Guard the Eastern Gate, make sure the humans don’t eat from the Tree of Good and Evil.’ There wasn’t any mention of fighting.”

“Not officially, no, but you’re a warrior of God! You can’t just politely ask demons to leave! You have to smite them!”

“I didn’t say I was polite. I’m afraid I was dreadfully rude.”

“Look, Aziraphale. This is an important mission. Well above your previous jobs. Don’t you want to come back with a real promotion?”

“I just want to go back,” says Aziraphale. “I’ll happily take my old position. I liked singing.”

“Too bad, it’s already been filled. This is your shot, big guy. Use it or lose it.” With that, Gabriel vanishes in a flash of golden light. Aziraphale sighs.

“Sssee, that’sss more what I’m used to in an angel,” hisses the serpent as it slithers to the top of the wall.

Aziraphale stiffens. It’s not the demon’s fault that he overheard an embarrassing conversation, but Aziraphale is upset and desperate to prove himself worthy of returning to Heaven. He points the sword at the snake and exclaims:

“You! Get thee behind me, foul fiend!”

There’s a long pause.

“I can’t. The wall’sss not wide enough.”

“What?”

“The wall. It’sss too narrow. I can’t get passst you to get behind.”

Aziraphale feels his face grow hot. Strange how this body has its own reactions to things. The snake continues speaking.

“I sssuppose you could turn around. Then I would be behind you.”

“I’m not going to turn my back on a demon!”

“Wissse. But then why do you want me behind you?”

“Oh, just go away!” snaps Aziraphale.

The demon goes away. But he comes back later.

Draped across the branches of a tree, idly watching the humans do their strange human things, Crawly can’t remember ever being this happy. Sure, heaven was perfect, but this place is _fun_. He almost feels sorry for the angel, clearly incapable of appreciating all the wonders around him. It’s a shame Crawly’s going to have to find a way to ruin it.

From the east, he hears an unearthly sound. Eerily beautiful, but also just eerie. The humans shiver and scurry in the opposite direction. Crawly, ever-curious, heads toward the sound. It’s the angel, of course, no mortal creature could produce something like that. He’s… singing?

A choir of angels can make the air around them transcendent through their music. An angel singing alone is just depressing.

In spite of himself, Crawly feels genuine sympathy for the angel. It hurts like pulling a muscle—he’s not supposed to feel things like that anymore. But he knows what it’s like to be isolated and lonely. He climbs up the wall.

“Sscelestial harmonies really don’t work ass sssoloss, you know.”

The angel sighs and looks sadly downward. “I know.”

Yet another long awkward pause. Crawly doesn’t really know how to express sympathy anymore, so instead he says, “I think you were ssscaring the humansss.” Even as he’s saying it he knows it’s the wrong thing. Seeing the angel’s face crumple in on itself like that, he wants to kick himself, but lacks the legs.

“I’m so bad at this job,” the angel says sadly. “Why couldn’t they have left me in the choir? I _liked_ singing.”

Crawly tries again. “I thought your ssinging wass nice.” That, too, appears to be the wrong thing to say, because the angel glares at him.

“You’re a demon, I shouldn’t want compliments from _you_.” They stare at each other in offended silence for a moment, before the angel looks away. (Being a snake, Crawly had a natural advantage in staring contests, though not in saying the words “staring contests.”)

“Gabriel says I should smite you, you know.”

Crawly still remembers his time in heaven. “Gabriel,” he says with perfect honesty, “Is a wanker.”

The angel’s mouth quirks up and he tries to hide a smile. It’s delightful.

“I suppose I’ve been rude, not to introduce myself. I’m Aziraphale.”

“Crawly.” As he says it, Crawly realizes that he’s grown less fond of his name. It was fine when he first fell—nothing would make up for the pain of losing his angelic name, and at least this was descriptive—but he’s starting to feel more himself up here, whoever that may be, and he suspects he’s going to need a new name.

“Well, nice to meet you, Crawly. Now begone, before I get in trouble for not smiting you.”

He goes. For a little while.

At first, Aziraphale is worried that he’ll get in trouble for talking to the demon. But apparently Gabriel isn’t watching too closely and the Allmighty isn’t bothering to interfere. So as Crawly keeps stopping by to chat, Aziraphale slowly starts to relax. It’s not the Ninth Choir, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Collegial. They’re enemies, of course, but that’s no reason to be impolite.

“Why _don’t_ you want to ssmite me, anyway?” Crawley asks during one of their chats.

Aziraphale doesn’t say: _because I don’t want to, because I enjoy your company, because then I’d be alone_.

Instead, he sighs. “I know I should, it just feels so…unrefined. I’ve done enough fighting for this eternity.” He eyes grow distant, then he shakes his head. “I do hope I don’t get in trouble, though.”

Crawly looks up at him. “You could try. Chasse me around the Garden. We could play hide and sssseek.” He sounds almost hopeful. For a moment, Aziraphale perks up at the thought, but then he remembers what he is. What they are.

“No, I can’t leave my post. They told me to guard the Eastern Gate. I’m not really supposed to spending time in the Garden.”

“Oh.” The demon definitely sounds disappointed. “Sssorry.”

Aziraphale is fairly certain that he shouldn’t be accepting sympathy from the enemy, but it feels nice, someone pretending to care.

Crawly knows he should be spending more time trying to make trouble, but he’s having too much fun. He’s figured out how the humans communicate, and he’s had a few conversations with the smaller one. They’re smarter than he’d initially given them credit for, the humans. There might be real troublemaking potential there.

Then there’s the angel Aziraphale. Despite Crawly’s best efforts, there doesn’t seem to be any troublemaking potential there, but he still enjoys their time together. The angel can be annoying—prissy, stuffy, smug—but he’searnest, and he’s clever, and all his thoughts and feelings run right across his face. Crawly likes that face.

He desperately wishes that he didn’t have to fulfill his mission, that he could just spend eternity here, provoking reactions from the angel and watching the humans. But as bad as it will be to return to Hell, it will be infinitely worse if Hell has to send someone to collect him.

“Sssso, that tree in the middle of the garden? What’ss it there for?”

Aziraphale sighs. “It’s the Tree of Good and Evil. The taste of its fruit is forbidden.”

Crawly looks thoughtful. Aziraphale isn’t sure how he’s come to be able to read a snake’s facial expressions, but he has.

“Ssso, what will happen if I try a bite?”

He considers. “I don’t think it would do anything to you or me. We already know the difference between good and evil.”

“Really?”

“Yes of course. I’m good,” the angel points to himself. “And you’re evil.”

They sit in silence for a bit, then Crawly speaks.

“Angel. Are you sssure you don’t want to run around the Garden with me? Just thiss once? It would be fun.”

“Fun? It mostly looks dirty to me. Anyway, you know I can’t leave my post.”

Crawly’s golden snake eyes seem almost wistful. “You know we’re not going to be here forever. Why not enjoy it while you can? It can’t hurt to relax jusst thiss once.”

Aziraphale is tempted, then realizes that he’s being tempted by a demon. “Go take your fiendish wiles somewhere else! You won’t sway me from my duty.”

Snakes shouldn’t be able to shrug, what with the lack of shoulders, but Crawly manages it.

“Ssssuit yourssself.”

Aziraphale wishes he could.

For the first time, a cold breeze whirls through the Garden. It whispers of rain, of change, and of endings.

Crawly has wrapped himself around the branches of the apple tree, and is trying to talk to the smaller human—not so much smaller anymore, though, especially not around the middle. 

“But aren’t you curiousss?” he asks.

“Oh yes.” It—no, _she_ —frowns. “So curious! But we can’t. It’s the only thing in the garden that isn’t allowed.”

“But it’sss right here in the center. Ssurely no one would mind one little nibble.”

She shakes her head.

“It’s the last thing God told us. And the angel keeps reminding us, whenever we go near the wall.” She starts to speak in a fussy affected voice. “’You’ve been staying away from the Tree of Good and Evil, mm? You _do_ know that it’s forbidden, mm? Good.’” Her Aziraphale impersonation is spot-on, and Crawly hisses in laughter. “So, yes, I’m pretty sure one bite would still get us in a lot of trouble.”

Looking at the human’s face, Crawly sees a spark of something deep in her eyes, and he learns the secret to humans.

“It’sss forbidden, then?”

She nodded. He smiles a toothy snakey grin.

“Doesssn’t that make you want it even more?”

She smiles back. It’s too easy.

Later that day, Crawley finds himself back on the wall, next to Aziraphale. He wants to explain, or apologize. Say goodbye, maybe. Instead:

“Ssso. That one went down like a lead balloon.”


	2. Chapter 2

Silver-blue light descends from the sky, and lifts Aziraphale up. Floating in the glow, he hears the voice of God all around him, and he wants to weep with joy. He’s home.

“Aziraphale. Where is the flaming sword I gave you?”

At first he makes excuses, then the story spills out—maybe not the whole story, but the necessary components of demon, apple, temptation, exile. God says only, “Ahh.”

Aziraphale apologizes, justifies, asks if he did the right thing. God doesn’t answer. He can still feel Her presence all around him, but She isn’t speaking to him anymore.

He has a more formal debriefing with Gabriel, Michael, and the rest of them. He doesn’t go into nearly so much detail, but that’s okay, because they aren’t interested. They scold him for losing his sword, give him a pile of lost item forms, send him on his way. He’s home.

No one comes to collect Crawly, to his immense relief. If Hell is sending someone after you, you are well and truly fucked. He just slithers off and finds his own way back to the fires of endless torment. The debriefing goes well, too. He talks about tempting the human—“The best part is, she did it herself! Free will! The angel couldn’t do a thing about it!—and they’re all very impressed with his influence, but they don’t seem to really understand that the human did it to herself. (Crowley suspects that, given a few more weeks, she might have tried the apple even without him, just out of boredom.) He makes fun of the angel, stealing the human’s trick of mimicking his voice. _That_ bit goes over great. The Morningstar himself praises his work and that’s it. He’s home.

Aziraphale knows he should be happy. He _is_ happy, he insists to himself. He’s back in Heaven, and he has important, if boring, work to do. There’s no longer space for him the Ninth Choir, though they assure him that he’ll always have a _metaphorical_ place with them.

“But what is my _actual_ job?” he asks, trying hard not to sound upset. No one seems to know or care. Eventually Michael gives him some little administrative tasks, just to shut him up, and it does. Aziraphale doesn’t have the same certainty of purpose that he did before, but he’s glad to be making a contribution, and he’s glad to be away from all the mess and fuss of the earth.

He keeps thinking about the demon. He knows he shouldn’t worry about a demon, well, he should worry about demons, but not about their welfare, and argh. He’s worried about Crawly. “A demon can get into real trouble, doing the right thing.” What if he’d gotten into real trouble?

Aziraphale tries asking around. “What happens to a demon if he gets in trouble with Hell?” Gabriel’s answer is not reassuring, especially not when he goes into excruciating detail. (Still far less excruciating than the actual punishment.) Aziraphale frets over it for a while, then returns with another question.

“Do we have any way of monitoring the demons?”

Gabriel looks at him with bemused contempt. “Monitor how? Like a window into Hell?”

“I don’t know exactly, just…some way of keeping tabs on them.”

“What a stupid idea. Why are you even asking?”

Aziraphale shuffles his feet. “Well, that snake demon was certainly a wily adversary. I want to make sure he isn’t in serious trouble—I mean, causing serious trouble.”

Gabriel’s face relaxes into a smile. “Eager for Round Two, are you? That’s the spirit! If you’re patient enough, maybe you’ll get to be the one to strike him down when the final battle comes.”

Maybe, Aziraphale tells himself, he should just write Crawly a letter.

Crawly knows he should be happy. He also knows he’s miserable. After his smashing success in the Garden, he’s been given some time to devote to pure Sloth, his favorite vice, but he can’t seem to rest. He’s bored, and boredom is its own special Hell.

He’s tired of being a serpent, for one thing. And he’s tired of his name. The name change paperwork is daunting, but he does it anyway out of sheer boredom. So now he’s Crowley, for whatever that’s worth.

Crowley tries striking up conversations with the other demons, but none of them have anything interesting to say. He’s beginning to suspect that the other demons lack something that humans have in abundance, some quality of curiosity and thought. Some sort of vision. Or maybe just creative self-delusion. He’s developing a theory of humans, what sets them apart from angels and demons. But when he tries to share it with the others, they’re completely uninterested. For an army of rebels, they can be annoyingly conformist.

He wishes he could tell the angel about his theory. At least Aziraphale listened to him, even if half the time his response was to tell Crowley to begone. And the angel was smart enough to wonder about things, even if he was too afraid to ask many questions.

He knew he shouldn’t be thinking about the angel—the slightest hint of positive feelings toward the enemy would put him in serious trouble. But he couldn’t help it. Yes the angel was annoying sometimes, but he was also such fun to annoy. And when the first raindrops started to fall on the earth, he’d reached out a wing to keep Crowley dry. Whenever the angel saw him, he looked happy, just for a moment, before he remembered that he was supposed to be stern and forbidding.

Even before he Fell, Crowley saw how the angels around him case a light that was sharp and bright and somehow cold. They might have been his brethren, but there was no real love there, and he hadn’t been surprised at their sudden willingness to destroy him, just for asking the wrong questions.

But now, when it’s too late, he’s met an angel whose light is soft and warm, an angel he could actually like. Crowley’s a little worried about his angel, up there with self-righteous bastards like Michael and Gabriel. He wishes there was a way to check in, make sure he’s doing all right. But every fallen angel knows there’s no way back.

Aziraphale is composing a letter in his head, trying to decide whether it would be better to open with “My Dear Crawly,” or “Attention, foul fiend!”, when he sees Gabriel waving him over.

“Gabriel! I was just about to go looking for you. I have a question about delivering letters.”

“What is it now, Aziraphale?”

“Well, ‘angel’ is just another word for messenger, so I was wondering if we could—“

“Never mind, I don’t care.”

“But, I just—“

“For God’s sake, Aziraphale, stop asking so many questions!”

“I, but, oh. Yes. You’re right. Don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Good. Now shut up and listen. We have an assignment for you. We’re sending you back to Earth.”

For a moment, Aziraphale is stunned silent. Gabriel stares at him expectantly. “Me? On Earth? But why?”

“Apparently Hell is sending an agent to go cause trouble. We need someone to thwart them, and since you’ve been so keen on fighting demons lately, we thought you might appreciate a second chance.”

“But, but, I did so badly down there!”

Gabriel shrugs. “I wasn’t impressed, but apparently the Almighty thought you did fine.”

“You’ve spoken with Her recently?” Aziraphale hasn’t, not since returning. Gabriel gives him a blank stare.

“I’ve talked to the Metatron, and that’s the same thing, right?”

“I suppose so, but—“

“Anyway, the point is, we need someone on the ground, as it were, and you’ve got the most experience.”

“But, but, I hate it down there. And I couldn’t stop the humans. I didn’t even smite any demons!”

“Exactly!” Gabriel grins. “Now you’ll get a chance to! Stop whining, Aziraphale! Go pick up your new body.”

Crowley is busy trying to think up excuses to go back to Earth when Beelzebub summons him and renders his plans immaterial.

“We hear that Heaven is sending an agent to look after the Earth. I want you to go up there and make more trouble.”

A slow toothy grin spreads across Crowley’s face “Oh yess,” he hisses. “I’m _good_ at that.”

Being recorporated is an odd feeling. Bodies come with a set of physical reactions already built in, and Aziraphale has to concentrate if he wants them to go away.

“Don’t go losing this body the way you lost your sword.” lectures Gabriel. “Discorporation is frowned upon.”

Aziraphale looks up at him hopefully. “Will I lose my position if it happens?”

“No, you’ll just have to fill out a lot of paperwork. Now let’s get going.”

It’s not the Garden, but Crowley is still having fun. He loves swaggering around in his new body, drawing stares that are alternately envious, lustful, and annoyed. There’s not quite as many plants, but his humans have been fruitful and multiplied. They’re _everywhere_ , and getting themselves into all sort of trouble. He drops a whisper in a human ear from time to time, but mostly he just watches them. They’re so clever. They’ve invented all sorts of things, like wheels and agriculture and fermentation. Crowley’s especially fond of that last one. In idle moments, he wonders what Aziraphale would be like after a few mugs of beer. It would be hilarious.

He’s sitting on a stool in the market, legs sprawled out and tripping the occasional passerby, when he hears a familiar angelic voice.

He jumps up, knocking the stool over, and slinks over to the source of the sound. The form is different, but the voice is unmistakable.

“And remember, always be on the lookout for demonic activity. If you see something, smite something.”

He was right, it’s Gabriel. What an arse. He can’t be the new agent, though—an angel of his rank has too many duties. Then Crowley hears another voice.

“And don’t waste too many miracles on the humans. They’re stupid, but they might catch on eventually.”

Ugh, Sandalphon. What a petty, mealy-mouthed, ingratiating little toad. If he’s the agent, then Crawly’s going to have to spend all his time on Earth staying as far away from him as possible. He should have known this assignment was too good to last.

Then, everything changes.

“Um, yes, I actually think they might be more clever than you’re giving them credit for, but—“

“Shut _up,_ Aziraphale. Just go out and find something to thwart, all right? We’ll be waiting for your report—but not too soon. We don’t need to hear from you that often.”

And they’re gone. Two of them, anyway, and good riddance. _His_ angel is looking around, utterly bewildered, wringing his hands. Crowley wants to run up to him, grab him, dance around and say “look at my new body, I have _legs_.” But he holds back. There might still be other angels around. And he’s a little worried about Aziraphale. What if they ruined his angel up there, made him all cold and bright and sharp? He doesn’t look it—in fact, he looks delightfully soft, and Crowley wants to poke him and squeeze him and run his new hands through the fluffy hair. But he’s afraid that he’ll be met with contempt. He decides to wait and see.

Aziraphale is overwhelmed. Earth is even noisier and smellier and more crowded than before. So many humans!

At first, he just wants to hide. After a while, he starts to adjust, at least a bit, and start learning things about the humans. They’re not so bad, once he gets used to them. He watches them create things to put in their mouths, and he feels his corporeal body wanting to do the same. It’s a delightful experience, this “eating” business, and soon he’s visiting all the little stalls around the market, trying out their creations. When he finds out that the humans have writing, he’s almost happy to be here. Almost.

He’s still worried that there’s no sign of his adversary. How is he supposed to thwart demonic wiles without any demons? Aziraphale knows that a demon must be somewhere nearby, because he can smell the sulfur and see the occasional ripple of discontent run through the mass of humans. Sometimes he thinks he sees something out of the corner of an eye, but then it vanishes.

Aziraphale is still getting used to the idea of linear time, so he’s not sure if it takes him a few days or a year, but eventually the frustration gets to him. He wasn’t precisely happy in Heaven—he can admit that now—but here he’s all alone and failing at his job, again.

Crowley spends almost a month observing the angel. He finds time here and there to cause some mayhem, but mostly he lets the humans handle it themselves so he can focus on Aziraphale. The angel learns about food, and Crowley discovers that watching the angel eat is a joy all of its own. Aziraphale gets far too excited over the clay tablets with their little marks—it’s not like Heaven and Hell didn’t already have writing—but that’s charming too. He watches how the angel treats the humans—he’s stuffy and awkward, but also kind, quietly healing broken bones and mending snapped axles. He gets angry, sometimes he’s even a little frightening, but the angel is never cold, or cruel, or uncaring. His angel is the same as before. And just as before, he seems lonely. Crowley makes up his mind.

Aziraphale looks around the market. Perhaps today he should try that thing the humans liked to drink, that made them act so odd. He sighs. No, it doesn’t look very enjoyable by oneself. He should probably be looking for demonic influence, anyway. He _knows_ it must be near, he can smell it.

Someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Oh, pardon me,” he says and looks behind him. No one is there. He turns to look the other way, and sees someone dressed in black, looking oddly familiar.

“Do I know you?”

The man brushes his hair out of his face and looks at him with golden snake eyes. Demon eyes. Familiar eyes. “Hello, angel. Forgotten me already?”

“Crawly? Is that you? Are _you_ the enemy agent?”

A wide smile spreads across the demon’s face.

“Might be. What are going to do about it? Sssmite me?”

His eyes are liquid gold and the smile makes them crinkle up at the corners. Aziraphale suddenly remembers two things. First, that being on earth doesn’t have to be that bad. It has some distinct advantages. Second, that corporeal bodies have wants of their own.

Aziraphale’s face looks panicked for a moment, then merely flustered, then he smiles.

“My dear serpent! I’m so glad to see that you’re all right!”

Crowley is taken aback. “ _You_ were worried about _me_?”

“Well, yes, I remembered what you said about getting in trouble, and I had no way of knowing if something had happened. I thought about writing you a letter, but I don’t think we have regular mail delivery down there.”

Crowley’s face has gotten away from him. He was trying for an insinuating smile, but instead he’s just grinning like an idiot. Mail delivery? Trust Aziraphale to think of something like that.

“You never answered my question, you know. Aren’t you going to smite me?”

“I don’t think my duties actually involve smiting. I’m mostly supposed to thwart your wiles. And I fully intend to! Well, to encourage the humans to.”

Crowley laughs and throws an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder like he’s seen humans do. For a moment, they both flinch, afraid that they’ll burn each other. But it’s fine.

He leads them over to a stall in the market selling clay mugs of beer.

“Take a seat and let me introduce you to human beer. Tastes awful, but it does fascinating things to your head.”

Aziraphale looks worried. “Does it damage the body? I’m supposed to take good care of my corporeal form.”

“Nothing permanent—you can just sober yourself up with a thought.”

“Well, in that case—wait. Are you trying to _tempt_ me, demon?”

Crowley realizes what it is that humans have: imagination. And he has it, too. Watching the angel, Crowley can imagine a future unspooling over thousands of years. Him and the angel.

He places a mug in Aziraphale’s hands and leans forward.

“Depends, angel. Do you _want_ me to?”

Aziraphale blushes, and tries to look away, and looks back at Crowley, and smiles. Crowley takes a sip of his beer and imagines a future together.

He’ll be in so much trouble if Hell finds out.

That only makes him want it more. 

This is going to be _fun._


	3. Epilogue: 6000ish years later.

They’re sitting on opposite ends of the battered old couch in Aziraphale’s shop. Crowley is sprawled out, his arms and legs at the oddest angles. He sips from his wineglass, watching Aziraphale through half-lidded eyes. Beneath the lamp, the angel is lit with a soft warm glow. Crowley’s too drowsy to pay close attention to what Aziraphale is saying—something about the printing process—but that’s fine. He’s perfectly content right where he is.

“…from the shapes of the letters. Lead type is soft, you see, and slowly changes its—“ Aziraphale stops. “I’m sorry, I know books aren’t your thing. You must be utterly bored.”

Crowley puts down his wine and slowly stretches, watching Aziraphale watch him.

“Crowley?”

“Angel.”

He slides across the couch until they’re sitting side-by-side, takes Aziraphale’s face between his hands.

“ _My_ angel.” He leans forward into a long slow kiss. The angel’s arms come around him and Crowley melts into the embrace. A bit of maneuvering and they’re tangled up together on one end of the couch, arms around each other, legs intertwined.

“I’m not bored. I never am, when I’m with you.” 


End file.
